No Direction Home
by Mark of the Asphodel
Summary: This far from home, even the stars seem to be strangers. In the darkness of Macedon, the onetime Prince of Light looks to the skies for guidance. FE3.


**No Direction Home**

I do not own _Fire Emblem_ or any of its characters.

Warnings: FE3 retconned for FEDS. Takes place following Chapter Four of FE3, Book Two. Contains angst, strong language, consumption of alcohol, violent imagery, and unloved and unpopular characters.

* * *

He called them his "captains," though the relative disorganization of his _ad hoc_ army meant that most of them didn't hold a formal office. Still, the men and women he summoned for a conference were all veterans, sworn knights who'd served him in the previous war. Marth asked for Arran, Draug, and Gordin from his own army, Palla and Catria from the Macedonian pegasus brigades and Sir Matthis of the Macedonian ground forces. The mage Linde was there, as she was his only real link to the Archanean court, and he invited Ogma because the man had shown dedication beyond the terms of any mercenary's contract. He looked at them all now in the flickering torchlight, and they registered not even as faces, but as sets of eyes, blue and green and brown, eyes that stared at him with varying levels of tension, apprehension, concern... and trust.

_Dear lords above, what have I done?_

He instinctively looked to Arran, the oldest among this gathering, and found the man to be coolly awaiting his orders-- whatever they might be. Marth did his best to mirror the knight's composure before he cleared his throat to speak.

"Some of you witnessed the arrival of the princess Caeda in our midst this evening, and those of you who didn't likely heard of it. She is safe, though tired from her long flight." Marth noted a flicker of concern in Ogma's otherwise impassive countenance. "You see, she flew here to Macedon directly from the Altean court."

He paused to allow this improbable feat to be digested by his audience. Marth could feel his mouth going dry and resisted the urge to lick his lips to wet them before he continued.

"Five days ago, three armies flying the banners of Archanea, Aurelis, and Gra converged upon Altea Castle, overwhelming the citadel and seizing possession of the government. Princess Caeda alone escaped, while my sister the princess Elice was taken hostage; the whereabouts of my regent Sir Cain is not known."

He watched the faces of his own men; Arran's eyebrows shot up, as even the most seasoned knight couldn't take the news of his country's destruction without flinching. The look of utter trust in Gordin's eyes gave way to stunned disbelief. Draug, already sober of visage, seemed to pull inward for a moment, then reached for a flagon of wine, poured a cup of it, and held it out to his sovereign. Marth acknowledged it with a nod; he could thank the man properly later. He took a sip of the resin-flavored Macedonian wine and the harsh taste of it worked to brace his nerves as he continued.

"To mobilize three armies of that size over so great a distance requires coordination in advance; this cannot have been a _reaction_ to any of the developments here in Macedon." He did not elaborate on said "developments" lest his argument carry the taint of self-justification. "It becomes apparent, in hindsight, that the main point of our foray into Grust was to divide the Altean forces, leaving the country undermanned and vulnerable. Likewise, the precise timing of the Macedonian coup, simultaneous with the uprising in Grust, is unlikely to be a coincidence. All of these outbreaks bear a common thread, seen in the the disappearance of the Macedonian princesses, the assault on the royal children of Grust, and now the capture of my sister."

The impact of his words and the logic behind them would have been fascinating under less grave circumstances. The light of intuition flashed in the eyes of Ogma and Catria both at almost the same instant, even before he termed the Grustian expedition a ruse. Marth saw how Palla pressed her lips together at the mention of the coup in Macedon; the pegasus knight showed a flash of self-recrimination both obvious and unwarranted. Matthis processed the news most slowly; his reaction, like Gordin's, was one of stark denial. But they all followed his logic, and Marth was glad of it; until the words left him, he had carried the very real fear that none of his captains would believe him.

"Far from an unconnected series of incidents, I am convinced that this is one war being waged on multiple fronts. The result is this-- three of our kingdoms have in short order been stripped of their legitimate governments."

"Who could have ordered such a thing, Your Highness?" The question came from Matthis; his eyes were glazed, as though words alone had caused him mortal injury.

"The only man who could have coordinated such an attack would be the Emperor himself." Of all the day's surprises, the matter-of-fact way in which Marth stated the unspeakable ranked high on the list. He felt divided into two separate bodies-- one able to say these incredible things with a calm that bordered on detachment, the other sick at heart to the point where thought he might choke. "If not Hardin, then someone so high in office that he could issue orders in the emperor's name and not be questioned. I'd be happy to credit General Lang of our recent acquaintance and leave the emperor out of it, but I cannot ignore the mysterious incident that caused Empress Nyna to dispatch Linde with the Fire Emblem."

Linde gasped, and her dark eyes focused on the shield-shaped emblem that Marth wore affixed to his mantle. The emblem worked as the keystone of his argument; Marth saw how imperturbable Catria raised a hand to her mouth, saw the droop in Gordin's shoulders as the archer accepted Hardin's role in the atrocities. Marth took another swallow of the wine, and it cost him a great deal of willpower not to simply drain the entire cup.

"Clearly the odds are stacked against us, but I must-- and shall-- counter this attack with all forces available to me. Those of you who are not my countrymen I cannot compel, but I urge you to join me. None of us will see our countries truly free again until this situation with Archanea is settled."

That was it; he waited now, hand tight around the cup, to see which of them would join him.

"The forces of Macedon are at your disposal, Your Highness," said Catria. She glanced at her elder sister, who made a wordless noise of assent, and from behind them Matthis chimed in his offer of Macedonian cavalry. Marth looked to Ogma, who sealed this extraordinary addendum to his contract with a nod. Linde, though, dipped low upon one knee.

"In the name of the blessed Empress Nyna, I swear to serve the one who carries her emblem... even if it leads me to fight against the emperor himself."

The intensity in her face was such that Marth felt his throat constrict; he closed his eyes to shut out the sight of Linde's angry tears. He looked over her head when he addressed them all again.

"Word of these developments is not to go beyond this tent. Sleep on it tonight, as well as you can, and in the morning we'll begin to plan our counterstrike." It was a weak way to end so momentous a conversation, but he didn't have much more in him to give. "Good night, all of you."

The captains filed from the tent, and Marth felt that as they left they took with them the remainder of his own energy. One remained, though her sister cast her a quizzical look before departing.

"Your Highness, if I may ask a question?"

"Certainly, Palla."

"This request may seem selfish, but did the princess bring any news of my sister?"

"Yes. Princess Caeda reported that she saw Est and Abel both in the thick of the fighting as she departed the castle." Was that worse than no word at all? All he could offer was that five days ago, Palla's youngest sister and her brother-in-law had been alive. This night....

Marth tried and failed to dislodge the image of Abel and Est both dangling from the gallows. Or would Hardin use an archers' squad to execute captured "rebels," as the Dolhr Empire had done? But Palla thanked him for the scant information and left as though _he'd_ done _her_ some favor. Once certain he was alone, Marth finished the cup of wine, then poured himself another and downed it so quickly he scarcely noticed its terrible taste.

"It's said the Macedonians first put resin in their wine to torment those who enslaved them," he said to the walls. "I can well believe that to be true. Might be something to try when we get back to Altea, as everyone seems hell-bent on conquering us."

It was easy enough to be brave behind the tent-curtains, but once Marth stepped into the open air and darkness, he lost the impulse to make any more jests. For a moment there, looking into the faces of his captains, it all seemed so possible-- that they would simply band together and turn the tables on those who had wronged them so deeply, so cruelly. And, of course, they'd rescue the captured princesses, and keep the children of Grust safe from their would-be assassins, and would do everything else that might set their world right. How likely was any of it to come to pass, given he wasn't entirely sure who their enemy even was?

_At least with the Dolhr Empire, their motivation seemed clear enough. I haven't the faintest idea why Hardin, or anyone else, might do these things. What under heaven is there to gain from this destruction?_

Strangely, he wasn't worried about the loyalty of the Macedonians, or of the motley collection of volunteers, neither knights nor mercenaries, now attached to his company. It was his own men, his own people, who seemed likely to desert him now.

_Even if it wasn't my fault directly, even if the attack was planned in advance and what I said to Lang made no difference, it was my duty to safeguard my people. I promised them all that much_. And with Altea wiped from the map in a single afternoon, his promises had proved nothing more than air.

_Those whom the gods mean to ruin, they first raise to the heavens. Is this my fate, then? The false savior who led his people to disaster? If I've offended the gods in some fashion, was it necessary send down their wrath upon the whole of my nation? _The Fire Emblem caught the moonlight and sent a beam of it glancing against a tent wall, a beacon aimed at nothing.

_Nyna said that emblem carried a curse. Perhaps I do, as well._

Marth walked until he found a large rock near the border of camp that might serve as a seat. He settled against it and looked up into stars which seemed unfamiliar to him, as though the sky itself had tilted sharply.

"Your Highness?"

Marth wasn't sure if he cared to have his brief solitude interrupted. His thoughts weren't very productive in that moment, so he supposed it was just as well that one of his knights had found him.

"Come over, Draug. Sit, if you like."

The older man did, after a moment's hesitation, ease his considerable bulk against the rock.

"Thank you." Marth meant it for the wine specifically, but also for the simple truth that the knight had remained faithful to him through the wild peregrinations of their last half-decade, even during the dim years in Talys when loyalty to the Altean crown meant nothing but a bed, a meager stipend, and the promise of a painful death if the Dolhr Empire caught up to them.

"It is my honor, sire."

Etiquette demanded that the conversation stop there; Marth rested his head on the cold granite and stared up at the sky. After a moment's thought, he found his bearings-- there was Arcturus, blazing like amber in sunlight, and there was the Pole Star, pointing the way northward. The way home.

_Father, Mother, bless my cause if you can. Light my path, because I'm stumbling in the darkness. _Memories of his parents filled his thoughts, but he spoke to Draug of something else altogether.

"You left a sweetheart at Altea Castle, didn't you?" He remembered the trainee archer, a copper-haired girl close to his own age, but at the moment he couldn't place her name.

"Yes, sire." A ghost of a smile brightened the knight's sober countenance. "She's a funny girl-- showed up for training without an invitation one morning. She said she knew she was too old to train and too common for a knight, but she wanted to be there anyway."

"She had some fighting experience." Why on earth couldn't he remember her name? He knew all the castle garrison on sight.

"She was part of the resistance during the last war, sire. Norne claims she shot down fourteen Macedonian couriers."

"Fourteen is a good number," Marth said slowly. Chatter about Draug's sweetheart didn't fend off his grave fears about the situation in his homeland, but it shaped those fears into something mundane that he could grapple with more easily. To talk about Draug's archer-girl in the present tense made it simple and personal instead of some murky cosmic horror.

"Arran was skeptical of her at first-- who wouldn't be? But she's done so well that even Cain praises her now--" Draug drew in a shuddering breath, and in the bright moonlight Marth could see the change in his face as the illusion of normality shattered. "There's no word of him?"

"None."

"Of all of us, he'd fight to death before he'd face capture."

Marth said nothing at first, because he knew it to be true. Cain would fight against impossible odds rather than flee to preserve his own life, and if faced with a choice of die-or-surrender might well take the former. But he couldn't acknowledge the truth in the statement, because he knew damned well that Draug and everyone else was depending on him for their vision of hope, and to admit their comrades were likely dead would fatally undermine that vision.

"We'll find them," he said, and was surprised by the assurance in his own voice.

_And what if you don't? What if you make it there only to find them all dead, or gone without a trace? _He reached for his mother's ring and twisted it around his finger until the metal bit into the flesh.

"We're all dead men anyway, Draug." Rebels, traitors, enemies of the Crown. "We have nothing to gain by accepting defeat-- and nothing to lose by fighting it."

"We're with you, sire."

"I can't tell you what that means to me." The odds were that he was leading them all straight to hell. Somewhere in the darkness a memory stirred, and it seemed for a moment that his swirling thoughts would crystallize and form a clear answer as to _why_ this all had come about. But the answer eluded him, and Marth realized that he was cold and very tired and had drunk a good deal of potent wine on a near-empty stomach.

He stood, and the world wavered only a little. Beside him, Draug lurched to his own feet so as not to sit about in the presence of his sovereign.

"Get some rest, Draug. This rebellion starts in earnest tomorrow. If the Archanean Empire wants to brand us all as traitors, we won't disappoint them."

He didn't believe one damnable word of it, and perhaps Draug didn't either. Even on the second-to-worst day of his life, on the boat bound for Talys with Altea lost behind them, Marth hadn't felt this bereft of any direction. He touched his mother's ring again, ran his fingertips over the thin band of metal that symbolized everything he could never regain.

"Take care, sire," came the soft words behind him. "Altea still needs you."

Whether Altea needed its ineffectual prince or not was beyond answering that night. Marth kept his eyes on the North Star as he wove his way through the camp to his own tent.

_Guide me, mother. Don't let me be too late to save Elice, and Cain, and Abel and Est. Don't let the ones I love die as they wait for me. Don't let Draug's sweetheart die waiting for him to come home._

The diamond-bright light of the pole star seemed to send a shaft down through his heart, and earth and sky locked together in a dance that revolved around a single point.

_Mother, if it's something I've done, just let me fall. Don't let me drag the entire world down with me. _

"Marth?"

He spun around, even as his right hand automatically went to the hilt of his sword. But the sword stayed in its sheath; he knew the voice, knew the moon-pale face and long dark hair of the woman who addressed him.

"Caeda, you should be sleeping. You're lucky to be alive after a flight like that, and the last thing you ought to do is wander the camp after dark."

"I think I was sleepwalking," she replied, and he took her in his arms as she began to shiver. "I thought I heard you calling out for me."

"No, it's fine. Come, I'll take you back."

"It's not fine." Her voice was high and fractured with the need for rest, but the sound of it, and her warm presence in his arms, served to sober him up-- and to yank him back from the mental precipice where he'd been speaking to his dead mother and asking for death himself. He draped his mantle around her and walked with her, linked together by the mantle like horses in tandem. The going was slow and clumsy, and when they reached the healers' tent, a very cross Sister Melissa waited for them.

"I'm sorry," Caeda said. "I have trouble sleeping when I'm away from home."

Melissa didn't believe the excuse, even though it was quite true, and Marth found himself replying more loudly than was needed.

"Well, we'll just have to get you home as soon as possible." In that moment, he almost believed himself... even though Marth didn't know the way back, and wasn't sure he'd recognize home when he found it again. If nothing else, he would follow the light of the pole star northward, and there either find Altea or fall off the edge of the world. Beneath the tip-tilted skies of Macedon, both seemed equally possible.

**The End**


End file.
